(no subject)
Title: Five Times Iker and Cesc Tried Something Different
Pairing: Cesc Fàbregas/Iker Casillas
Rating: NC-17ish.
Disclaimer: This really happened. I’m lying.
*
One. “Cesc?”
“Yes?” Virtuous, boisterous, a chirp of impatience at the interruption tucked away in the sleep-hoarse voice. Cavernous eyes all night dark and curious and sly as they stare up and Iker feels his stomach abandon him.
“What are you doing?”
“Painting you,” answers Cesc simply, and returns to smearing a thick maze of melted chocolate up Iker’s left thigh, reaching over to rub down the inside before daubing his fingers in the bowl at the bedside table. Blinking away the final fuzz of sleep that clings to his eyelashes Iker studies him, his breath arriving with slight glitches and quivers now at the tender smudges of Cesc’s hot fingertips, and it is only when Cesc begins drawing cocoa over the ridges of his chest, his warm stomach, that he clears his throat and endeavors to speak.
“You’re going to make a mess.”
Cesc smirks. “I’ll clean you up.” His black eyes scintillate immorally and Iker has to take that in the dirtiest possible context. “I promise.”
“Cesc…” Iker is amused and (a little more than) somewhat turned on but he’s still tired and it’s too magnificently dark to be doing anything but sleeping. “Why now? Why not tomorrow morning?”
“Because.” Cesc gnaws endearingly on his lower lip as he smoothes a curl of chocolate around Iker’s navel, dragging lengthily over the valley-flat expanse of the keeper’s lower abdomen. “I’m wide awake and I was watching you and I can’t stop wondering how you’d taste with chocolate. Besides, everything’s more fun at night.”
Iker can find no sagacious argument for this and he simply watches, shaking his head in fond incredulity as the midfielder continues his work, concentration shading his face, needing the perfection. His touch is dawdling and sweet with clumsiness but it is enough to make Iker’s stomach grow hot and by the time the bowl is empty his toes are curling with unsure anticipation. When Cesc lifts his head and sees that the keeper is half hard for only this a ready smirk scrawls itself rapidly over his open mouth.
“Shut up,” growls Iker, knowing precisely what he’s thinking, incensed at the flush he can feel mottling his cheeks. “You got me into this.”
“And I’ll get you out,” croons Cesc headily, twirling his fingers in Iker’s own to spread the chocolate, far too warm from skyrocketed body heat to melt, to his hands. “Eventually.”
Lazily he angles his head for a kiss, letting Iker boss for a moment with a famished, weakening tongue before immobilizing him, a sticky hand creeping knowledgeably along the crease of his thigh. Accordingly the keeper sighs out hard and Cesc grins before slinking down to lick a road along his arched throat.
Iker tastes like sex and sleep and dark, dark chocolate and the luscious concoction makes Cesc’s mouth water. Pleased, he gives a muffled groan of appreciation against smoldering skin, and Iker’s shaking in-out rhythm of breath falters; helpless, he brings a tender hand up to seize in Cesc’s hair, urging him on, rewarding him. Cesc is in no hurry but his heart jackhammers at Iker’s reaction and without really meaning to he bites down when he laps up the next mouthful.
Startled, Iker whimpers pitiful and grating in his throat, pushing his hips up in an impulsive attempt to find some sort of friction, anything, so long as it’s contact, and he growls when the urge is left unfulfilled. Cesc attaches his mouth to the fresh, smarting crimson mark on his neck and sucks, gentle at first, then brutal and shredding because he can feel how much Iker wants it that way. The goalie sobs out a moan and driven by absolute powerless instinctive need he skims a hand down his stomach, reaches between his legs to grab his swollen, raging cock. Cesc feels the movement and bracelets unyielding fingers around his wrist, dragging roughly away so he can pin Iker’s arm.
“No.”
Despite a slice of frustration through his core Iker smiles, lets his head drop, thrilled deep along the pole of his hot-cold spine at Cesc’s assertiveness. Below him the midfielder licks sloppily at his sternum, worshipping the taste with a masterful tongue, and Iker almost can’t speak but he swallows cotton and gets it out.
“Why?”
Cesc whiplashes up then, leveling his face with Iker’s, and the goalie wants to lick the territorial blaze from the younger man’s face, the irrational rage, just to see how Cesc tastes when he’s wound.
“Because,” snarls Cesc. “This - ” scraping greedy fingers up the silken inside of Iker’s quivering thigh, wrapping them proficiently around the base of his dick, so hard Cesc has to smile in triumph despite the anger riled in his eyes “ - belongs to me.”
Iker’s eyes roll back and he moans; Cesc kisses the vibrating sound from his open mouth before returning to business, his breath all warm and inquisitive and thick with chocolate over skin. Occasionally he rises to transfer some sauce onto Iker’s tongue (languorous and sexy and Iker could die when their lips meet over the taste) but when he reaches the area around the keeper’s navel he pauses, takes a moment to contemplate his options.
Iker is rapacious below him, writhing in discomfort, and he fights against Cesc’s grip on his wrists but he is damaged by lust and the midfielder holds him easily. Iker feels as though he has been carved hollow and his stomach filled with molten, liquid ache, so profound it makes his head swirl in curls of vertigo. When Cesc lowers his head and shifts side-to-side, exhaling across his abdomen, asterisks of black fade out the edges of Iker’s vision and he chokes, lifting his head just to slam it back down against the pillows in agitation.
“Cesc.”
The midfielder glances up, demon sparks sizzling in his eyes as he kisses the head of Iker’s strained, pulsing cock.
“Please.”
Obligingly Cesc nuzzles up to swipe his tongue over the remaining drops of chocolate spread like a bruise over Iker’s skin, slipping a familiar, audacious hand between his legs to tend to his dick, already leaking heavily, unabashed and thicker by the second, mixing with the sweetness on his stomach. Iker can’t breathe and his mind is a vacant kaleidoscope and there is barely a warning tickle before he’s rocking and bridging up for the heat of Cesc’s mouth, torn to scraps by a rough, delirious orgasm. Cesc is there to vacuum it all, closing his mouth over the head to ensure it, and after Iker has been spent to exhaustion he crawls up to straddle the keeper’s hips. When Iker’s heavy-lidded gaze is rapt on him he raises his chin and swallows his mouthful, all of it, his meaning very clear, and Iker’s heart stops.
“Here. Now,” he commands huskily, and Cesc winds their arms together and stretches out atop him before he lowers down for a slow, licking kiss. Infused in every corner of Cesc’s mouth is a bizarre but not unpleasant taste, all hesitant-sweet and salt, and Iker can see how this could spark sleeplessness.
*
Two. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Mmph.” The pillow stifles Cesc’s purred response and he makes an effort, he really does, squirming around and letting his eyes slink tiredly open. The swap in position, however, only succeeds in further encouraging slumber, as he is far more comfortable now than he was five seconds ago. “’M not.”
“You are.” Iker laughs against the shifting rise of his shoulder blade, feeling the contented shiver that snakes through Cesc’s body. He wants to kiss it through his skin and when he tips his head to do so he is disappointed that he can’t taste the clear electricity. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“But I want to,” sighs Cesc, albeit the endearing smile inhabiting his soft rose mouth. “Tired.”
“But I’m not,” declares Iker, and Cesc is attached enough to reality that he can snicker woozily at these words.
“I don’t care,” he murmurs. “Leave me ’lone.”
“I don’t want to.” Iker stamps a wet, sucking kiss to the base of Cesc’s throat, hoisting himself up on his elbows so he can linger over the midfielder, touching him only with his mouth. “You’re hot.”
Cesc groans and curls fiercely around his pillow, ignoring the suggestion of flame that licks through his stomach. “I can be hot in the morning. Go jerk off.”
“That’s no fun.” Iker smiles into the defined crevice between his shoulder blades before he pokes out his tongue and licks, tasting sweat and the remnants of something clean, and his stomach clenches simultaneously with his heart when it soaks in how very Cesc that taste is.
“Are you ever not horny?” mumbles Cesc, his toes bending painfully against his will as he drifts. “Is that possible?”
“Yes.” Iker is at the ridge of his back now, biting softly at the give of his arch, sneaking around to lap at his hipbones, arrowing sharply up against his waist. “Only when you’re not near me, though.”
Helplessly Cesc smiles at that, warm inside out. “So maybe you should go sleep in the living room,” he says, teasing, moaning feebly in remonstration when Iker jabs under his ribcage, gathers him in for a chide of a cuddle. Unrestrictedly the goalie’s hand finds its way through the fissure between Cesc’s thighs, threading his needle as he reaches up to feel over Cesc’s boxers. Contradictory to his words the midfielder is more than a little aroused and Iker gives a snarl of deep satisfaction upon contact.
“You sure about that?” he asks, folding his hand over the tenting there and stroking slow, slow, leisurely so Cesc chokes out a soft “oh” of hypnotic pleasure and burrows back against him.
“Y-yes.”
Smirking, Iker slinks away, withdrawing his hand only at the last moment so he can push Cesc’s shoulders down into the mattress as he rests his chin on the full camber of his ass. Cesc gives a mew of disapproval at the absence of warmth and proficiency around his cock and Iker kisses the base of his spine; surprised, the midfielder feels his heart forget to beat and he bridges up in automatic want.
“Really?” Iker slides his hands under Cesc’s thighs and pulls them up until he can hook his fingers in his waistband, jesting as he lowers his shorts in bare centimeters. “How sure?”
“Ninety percent,” announces Cesc. In spite of his words he hoists himself up with sweat-slick palms flattened on the mattress, inviting Iker to rid him smoothly of his shorts, and the goalie consents, hasty but sure as he flows over Cesc’s skin. Lazily he maps over Cesc’s tailbone with a wet surprisingly chaste mouth and Cesc gasps, a shrill inhalation against the undulating silence.
“Now?” asks Iker softly.
“Um.” Cesc gulps. “Seventy-five.”
“Hmm.” Iker crawls up so he can glide his tongue down the rhythmic rutted column of Cesc’s spine, leaving a glistening, chill boulevard of starvation that Cesc feels every time he so much as breathes. Iker stops when he’s nudging against the midfielder’s ass and he speaks in a hot wave that crashes down hard in a place Cesc has never felt quite so intensely before. “Now?”
“Fifty,” shudders Cesc, arching up, immoral with lust, beautiful.
“Oh yes?” Iker licks lightly into the natural crevice of his body, ghosting over the pucker of muscle he knows innately by feel, and this, so new, hurls chills through his nervous system. Cesc freezes and explodes out a moan for the suggestion of contact. “And now?” Pushing his tongue out to spiral around the younger man’s quivering opening.
Cesc collapses onto the pillows, fisting his hands around blankets, bawling Iker’s name, and the keeper interprets this reaction as a go-ahead. He delves into Cesc with a ravenous tongue, vice hands bruising at carved hips so he can pull him back and sink deeper until Cesc is screaming and his face is buried, the taste (addictive, bordered with his own salt, toxic) and proximity enough to force vertigo through his system.
*
Three. Tomfoolery dances in Cesc’s deep eyes like sprite lights in a midnight garden and Iker should know better than to stop watching him for one second but his vigilance wavers in breezy haste and before he knows it his gaze has been veiled in darkness.
Somewhere behind him the midfielder chuckles, low. Iker can feel his fingers trickling at the back of his head as he secures the thin strip of cloth and feebly he reaches up to war with him but Cesc is powered by adrenaline and he stays the attempt with ease.
“Yeah, so…” Iker pauses, clicks his tongue against the ceiling of his mouth. “I can’t see.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” laughs Cesc, reaching deftly around to pull Iker’s wrists behind his back and tack them there with warm winding hands.
“Is there a point to this?” asks Iker idly, allowing himself to be led, meek as a tamed animal.
“Yep.”
“Are you going to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
Iker sighs and falls silent, his eyebrows twin arches against the blindfold in automatic calculation as he deliberates his options. He could probably run if he truly wished; he is slightly taller and stronger than Cesc, and could fight him off if necessary. Only a small portion of his mind (the part that tells him not to stay up past eleven-thirty before a game, and not to eat that slice of chocolate cake) is surfing this thought wave and he forgets it as easily as it presents itself: he wants to know where this is going and he’s sticking this out.
After a few moments (seconds? Blindness manipulates time) of walking, Cesc sits him down on a chair; it’s at least comfortable and he burrows immediately while he waits. He senses movement and hears the younger man clamoring around in a corner before he feels Cesc in front of him by goosebumps rising over his skin, mountain chains of heightened perception. A finger skips over his mouth and automatically he sucks it in, coaxing a soft sound of pleasure from above before Cesc pulls away and checks himself.
“Open your mouth.”
Iker obeys, amused, and Cesc slips his fingers in again, brief this time, used only to push a square of bittersweetness onto his tongue. Iker knows what it is immediately but waits for Cesc to ask.
“What is it?”
“Chocolate.”
“What kind?”
“Dark.”
“Good.” Cesc grins as he waits for Iker to finish and the goalie can hear it in his voice, feel it in the surrounding air. When Cesc is happy he exudes joy like flowers expel scent.
Iker cocks his head. “Do I win a prize?”
“Yes you do,” replies Cesc, and Iker grins, reaches up to undo the blindfold; he gets as far as his nose when Cesc shoves his hand roughly away and inserts a long, mushy, sugar-crystalline object between his half-open lips. Iker sputters in dispute but relaxes as he chews, all thoughtful and automatic enjoyment.
“Gummy worm,” he says slowly.
“Uh-huh.” Cesc is beaming.
“Sour gummy worm.”
“You’re good at this game,” answers Cesc approvingly, and Iker laughs at that, shaking his head.
“If you say so.”
Several seconds after Iker swallows Cesc leans in again, paints silk over his lips, and Iker dabs his tongue out to taste. “Peanut butter,” he says instantly, rewarded by Cesc’s affectionate hand through his hair.
“Yes,” he says, and Iker detects a glitch in his voice, a sigh, too slight for anything but passing notice. “Here.”
Iker leans forward expectantly and this time Cesc slides two fingers deep into his mouth, so far back Iker can feel a slight gag reflex, and it surprises him; by now he has become accustomed to its nonexistence. Out of pure impulse he jerks back but hollows his cheeks furiously around Cesc’s intruding hand and the midfielder cannot keep back a rumbling moan of desire.
“Jelly,” announces Iker, when his mouth is empty again. “Blackberry jelly.”
“Mm.” Cesc’s lips stamp over his own, briefly, before he pulls back and digs into Iker’s mouth yet again, this time with a difficult flavor to place. Iker is lost in every rack of his mind, digging through shelves and boxes tucked in corners of his childhood for every candy he knows, everything once familiar to him that has become obscure in adulthood.
“Jolly Rancher,” he says slowly, sucking harshly at the sides of the tiny saccharine log in his mouth. “Watermelon Jolly Rancher.”
“Yes,” gasps Cesc, and suddenly Iker places the earlier catch in his voice, knows why Cesc, who chirps at nine thousand miles a minute when he’s excited about something, has gone quiet, and he opens his mouth to chide him for starting early when Cesc dips into his mouth again, this time with a wholly different taste dripping from his fingertips, such an absolute contrast to the sweetness Iker has thus far been fed that he has to slow to recognize it. When he does he feels his stomach drop and he licks greedily from the source until every teardrop of fluid has been transferred to his mouth. He takes his time, listens to Cesc breathe, in-out, in-out, trembling, and when he swallows he makes it a show.
“You,” he says huskily, and Cesc rips off the blindfold, drags him up for a kiss, all sugar and salt and common understanding.
“Congratulations,” purrs Cesc between sloppy, deep, passionate delves. “You win a prize.”
“And what is that?” pants Iker, pushing a solid, intrusive leg between Cesc’s thighs as they lap at each other.
“Me,” answers Cesc, and Iker flips him around, shoves him down into the chair, and grinds raggedly against him until both of them are senseless.
*
Four. Early evening and the shadows saunter and scuttle through the windows and Cesc is surprised to open his eyes to the dimness. Iker had gone out for bread and milk and he’d closed his eyes for (one minute no two okay five) a short rest that had turned into an hour of black. The exhaustion, he knows, is due to the purposeful insomnia of the day before, when Iker had arrived and they’d spent the remaining day and most of the night fucking in Cesc’s bed and on the floor and in each of the four showers in the house and on the kitchen table and in the guest bedroom and on the couch in the basement and -
Cesc is grinning maniacally at the recollection but as rationality closes upon him the joy in his expression wanes. Yawning deeply he checks the clock, checks his phone, nothing new save for the shift in time, and he’s jolted through with a faint cartwheel of fear: Iker should be back by now.
Agile, fluid, he rises from the couch, his sleep-weakened fingers curled around his phone, and glides confidently through to the kitchen, which is as dark as they’d left it earlier, when Iker had declared that they were low on essentials and offered to replenish the supply. Cesc is stabbed hard with unease but he tries to breathe and just moves, hovers to marvel in the silence, slinks on to check the hallway for signs of light.
“Iker,” he sings out, and the moment the word smashes the quiet apart his phone buzzes, the name on his screen the one on his lips.
“Where are you?”
“I’m here,” Iker breathes on the other end, laughing. “Come find me.”
And before Cesc can say a word the call goes dead.
Chewing habitually on his lower lip he brings his phone down and stares at it for some hint, some sign, but there is nothing and he knows he is left to his own devices. He is so unused to this side of Iker, so in love with it and wound by it and shocked thoroughly by it, but it shakes him to his core when it’s revealed because it is foreign to him, unfamiliar. Daring-fresh and veiled to everyone but him.
The hunt is long and frustrating and it might be easier in the light but he leaves the switches off because he wants to wield the power of surprise and everything is better in the dark. The basement is empty and he doesn’t think Iker will hide on the first floor but he checks anyway. His instincts can become blurry when faced with flooring prospects.
Upstairs he roots silently through the hall, combing the first two rooms to no avail, and it is only when he ducks into his bedroom that he sees the shadow slouching against the wall. Iker is albino-pale against the black and Cesc wants to lick the cream of his skin.
“You could have at least gotten under the bed or something,” he scoffs, treading gracefully closer.
“Well.” Iker grins a little; Cesc’s blood revs furiously at the drawling gravelly quality of his voice. “I wanted to be found.”
“Did you.” Cesc dances to him, tilting his head to one side. “Why is that?”
Iker snatches for him, a comfortable, affectionate tug on his forearms, steadies him centimeters from being flush. With familiar, jealous hands he crawls over Cesc’s hips, down to his palms and over his thumbs; keeping one hand on the midfielder’s waist, he chains the fingers of his free hand around the younger man’s wrist and coaxes it over to rest on the front of his jeans and even through all the denim and cloth Cesc can feel exactly how hard he is. Smirking, he pushes solidly upward with the heel of his hand and Iker moans quietly from a well somewhere intimate way down deep, lays his head back against the wall, weakened.
“Hmm.” Cesc bites at Iker’s mouth. “I want to play.”
“Game’s over,” says Iker on a growl, his hands roaming, free reign all over the midfielder’s stomach. “You win.”
“No.” Cesc pulls back, laughing at the fury in Iker’s eyes. “I’m hiding. When you find me, we’ll talk.”
And so saying, he sprints out of the room, hurling a cackle of insane triumph over his shoulder; Iker stands and rages and blinks for a moment before he follows him, catching up by utter determination and a well-aimed leap that catapults him onto Cesc’s shoulders, forcing a tiny, shocked exhalation from his lungs when they land roughly on the hallway floor. Before Cesc has half a second to regain his breath Iker is grinding hard and slow against his back and Cesc can’t help the shameless moan that wails from his mouth.
“Found you,” hisses Iker, deep, and Cesc arches for him, reaching back for the keeper’s hand so he can sink his teeth into skin when Iker takes him, rough, furious, mindmelting there on the ground where they fell.
*
Five. When it’s a full moon Iker is a different creature, his blood howls like the carnivorous wolf for the specter opalescence of the night guardian, the melancholy decorating its face reflected in his thoughts. Tonight he is suffering from insomnia and he sits on the ledge of the window, fingerprinting the pane simply because he cannot touch the sky.
He knows his phone will light up before it does, knows who it will be because he wanted the call and he knows things when he’s connected to awareness like he is tonight. Cesc’s voice is raspy and a little bit painful and Iker is stunned by how much he needs him now.
“Come to my room,” he seduces, half plead, half command.
“What about Fernando?” asks Iker slowly, already rising to pull on a sweatshirt, quiet for fear of waking Silva, a tiny parenthesis wrapped under the blankets of the other bed.
“He’s with Sergio,” answers Cesc softly. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” promises Iker, tender, and he steals a key and goes.
Cesc is at the door before Iker even knocks and the keeper feels that knife-slice of mental understanding that they have cultivated, shivering inside him in strange familiarity, though he can’t get used to it, never will. He hasn’t felt this with anyone and he knows they share thoughts sometimes in a common smirk across a room, so profound that Iker can’t relate it to absurdity. It is their reality.
“I missed you,” bursts Cesc, and Iker pulls him over for an embrace, hot and clumsy in hasty fervor. By innate knowledge their lips stagger together, lapping slow and hungry into each other’s mouths, and Cesc is the one who draws Iker to the bed, falling on top of him with a graceful assuredness. He has fallen for Iker too many times not to know that the keeper will always be there to stop him from disaster.
Soon they are unclothed and writhing together, all knotted up like sailor’s ties, undoable bound by selfish limbs. Iker knows what comes next and his hands go to Cesc’s hips to pull him on top but he turns his head to the paper-slice of moonlight scratching through the windows, eager to watch and trick with its wickedness, and his eyes go clear.
Wordless, he spreads his legs and squeezes them gently around the midfielder’s waist before settling back, opening himself, a gentle hint, a come-on. Cesc moves with him at first, unsuspecting, but when it settles in his mind what is happening he gasps and darts back to stare flummoxed into Iker’s amused, placid eyes.
“You want me to - ”
Iker smiles.
“I want to feel you.”
Perhaps the goalie had assumed in a cobwebbed, swept-away portion of his mind that Cesc would be maladroit and fumbling, but the midfielder is composed, despite the feral swirl of keenness in his gaze as he scissors preparing fingers inside of Iker, who groans lustily for the infrequent invasion. He has been the one fucking for so long he has forgotten the sensation of being breached. When Cesc enters him, inch-by-inch and cautious despite the obvious urge to go embossed over his lovely face, Iker turns his head to he side and bites his mouth over the shards of anguish littering his body as he coaxes himself (hold on, hold on, it’s only the beginning) to relax. It hasn’t been so long that he can’t remember how good it is after the pain.
Cesc folds over and kisses him, skittering fingers a distraction on Iker’s cock, and he plays until the goalie is groaning and rolling up with his hips for more. Then he moves, their rhythm already known and established, for it is no different when Iker is the one in charge. More frantic, perhaps, because Cesc is overwhelmed by the sensation and Iker is growling for him to (move, go, fuck me harder) keep up the pace. Miraculously Cesc knows what Iker wants and before long there is no more begging, just moans sobbed from a sandpaper throat, then that scratchy yelp of warning that Iker gives each time he is about to explode.
Ruthlessly Cesc angles up, hits bullseye, and as he does he flies down and snarls into Iker’s mouth: “You’re - so fucking tight - ” and that is it for both of them. Their eyes crash and they stare evocatively as they rush to bliss together, Iker half in Cesc’s palm and half decorating his stomach, Cesc as deep inside Iker as he can possibly be, both of them shaking so hard they can’t speak. Mesmerized.
At last Cesc draws gingerly away and Iker reaches for him but he dives before he can be caught, leaning down to suck his own fluid from between Iker’s thighs, scavenging his entrance for the drops near the surface. Spellbound, Iker watches, unaware that his lips are parted in wanton shock, and he is rewarded when Cesc rolls up and swipes his tongue into his mouth, swapping the combination of tastes in a long, profound kiss.
When they curl together, wasted, giddy, Iker cannot get close enough to Cesc, wants to split souls to always be half inside each other and fulfilled. “I love you,” he murmurs into Cesc’s dark hair, and the midfielder hums in simple joy.
“Love you so much,” he returns, and Iker falls asleep knowing he will never get enough of the miracle encased in his arms.
[FIN]
Pairing: Cesc Fàbregas/Iker Casillas
Rating: NC-17ish.
Disclaimer: This really happened. I’m lying.
*
One. “Cesc?”
“Yes?” Virtuous, boisterous, a chirp of impatience at the interruption tucked away in the sleep-hoarse voice. Cavernous eyes all night dark and curious and sly as they stare up and Iker feels his stomach abandon him.
“What are you doing?”
“Painting you,” answers Cesc simply, and returns to smearing a thick maze of melted chocolate up Iker’s left thigh, reaching over to rub down the inside before daubing his fingers in the bowl at the bedside table. Blinking away the final fuzz of sleep that clings to his eyelashes Iker studies him, his breath arriving with slight glitches and quivers now at the tender smudges of Cesc’s hot fingertips, and it is only when Cesc begins drawing cocoa over the ridges of his chest, his warm stomach, that he clears his throat and endeavors to speak.
“You’re going to make a mess.”
Cesc smirks. “I’ll clean you up.” His black eyes scintillate immorally and Iker has to take that in the dirtiest possible context. “I promise.”
“Cesc…” Iker is amused and (a little more than) somewhat turned on but he’s still tired and it’s too magnificently dark to be doing anything but sleeping. “Why now? Why not tomorrow morning?”
“Because.” Cesc gnaws endearingly on his lower lip as he smoothes a curl of chocolate around Iker’s navel, dragging lengthily over the valley-flat expanse of the keeper’s lower abdomen. “I’m wide awake and I was watching you and I can’t stop wondering how you’d taste with chocolate. Besides, everything’s more fun at night.”
Iker can find no sagacious argument for this and he simply watches, shaking his head in fond incredulity as the midfielder continues his work, concentration shading his face, needing the perfection. His touch is dawdling and sweet with clumsiness but it is enough to make Iker’s stomach grow hot and by the time the bowl is empty his toes are curling with unsure anticipation. When Cesc lifts his head and sees that the keeper is half hard for only this a ready smirk scrawls itself rapidly over his open mouth.
“Shut up,” growls Iker, knowing precisely what he’s thinking, incensed at the flush he can feel mottling his cheeks. “You got me into this.”
“And I’ll get you out,” croons Cesc headily, twirling his fingers in Iker’s own to spread the chocolate, far too warm from skyrocketed body heat to melt, to his hands. “Eventually.”
Lazily he angles his head for a kiss, letting Iker boss for a moment with a famished, weakening tongue before immobilizing him, a sticky hand creeping knowledgeably along the crease of his thigh. Accordingly the keeper sighs out hard and Cesc grins before slinking down to lick a road along his arched throat.
Iker tastes like sex and sleep and dark, dark chocolate and the luscious concoction makes Cesc’s mouth water. Pleased, he gives a muffled groan of appreciation against smoldering skin, and Iker’s shaking in-out rhythm of breath falters; helpless, he brings a tender hand up to seize in Cesc’s hair, urging him on, rewarding him. Cesc is in no hurry but his heart jackhammers at Iker’s reaction and without really meaning to he bites down when he laps up the next mouthful.
Startled, Iker whimpers pitiful and grating in his throat, pushing his hips up in an impulsive attempt to find some sort of friction, anything, so long as it’s contact, and he growls when the urge is left unfulfilled. Cesc attaches his mouth to the fresh, smarting crimson mark on his neck and sucks, gentle at first, then brutal and shredding because he can feel how much Iker wants it that way. The goalie sobs out a moan and driven by absolute powerless instinctive need he skims a hand down his stomach, reaches between his legs to grab his swollen, raging cock. Cesc feels the movement and bracelets unyielding fingers around his wrist, dragging roughly away so he can pin Iker’s arm.
“No.”
Despite a slice of frustration through his core Iker smiles, lets his head drop, thrilled deep along the pole of his hot-cold spine at Cesc’s assertiveness. Below him the midfielder licks sloppily at his sternum, worshipping the taste with a masterful tongue, and Iker almost can’t speak but he swallows cotton and gets it out.
“Why?”
Cesc whiplashes up then, leveling his face with Iker’s, and the goalie wants to lick the territorial blaze from the younger man’s face, the irrational rage, just to see how Cesc tastes when he’s wound.
“Because,” snarls Cesc. “This - ” scraping greedy fingers up the silken inside of Iker’s quivering thigh, wrapping them proficiently around the base of his dick, so hard Cesc has to smile in triumph despite the anger riled in his eyes “ - belongs to me.”
Iker’s eyes roll back and he moans; Cesc kisses the vibrating sound from his open mouth before returning to business, his breath all warm and inquisitive and thick with chocolate over skin. Occasionally he rises to transfer some sauce onto Iker’s tongue (languorous and sexy and Iker could die when their lips meet over the taste) but when he reaches the area around the keeper’s navel he pauses, takes a moment to contemplate his options.
Iker is rapacious below him, writhing in discomfort, and he fights against Cesc’s grip on his wrists but he is damaged by lust and the midfielder holds him easily. Iker feels as though he has been carved hollow and his stomach filled with molten, liquid ache, so profound it makes his head swirl in curls of vertigo. When Cesc lowers his head and shifts side-to-side, exhaling across his abdomen, asterisks of black fade out the edges of Iker’s vision and he chokes, lifting his head just to slam it back down against the pillows in agitation.
“Cesc.”
The midfielder glances up, demon sparks sizzling in his eyes as he kisses the head of Iker’s strained, pulsing cock.
“Please.”
Obligingly Cesc nuzzles up to swipe his tongue over the remaining drops of chocolate spread like a bruise over Iker’s skin, slipping a familiar, audacious hand between his legs to tend to his dick, already leaking heavily, unabashed and thicker by the second, mixing with the sweetness on his stomach. Iker can’t breathe and his mind is a vacant kaleidoscope and there is barely a warning tickle before he’s rocking and bridging up for the heat of Cesc’s mouth, torn to scraps by a rough, delirious orgasm. Cesc is there to vacuum it all, closing his mouth over the head to ensure it, and after Iker has been spent to exhaustion he crawls up to straddle the keeper’s hips. When Iker’s heavy-lidded gaze is rapt on him he raises his chin and swallows his mouthful, all of it, his meaning very clear, and Iker’s heart stops.
“Here. Now,” he commands huskily, and Cesc winds their arms together and stretches out atop him before he lowers down for a slow, licking kiss. Infused in every corner of Cesc’s mouth is a bizarre but not unpleasant taste, all hesitant-sweet and salt, and Iker can see how this could spark sleeplessness.
*
Two. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Mmph.” The pillow stifles Cesc’s purred response and he makes an effort, he really does, squirming around and letting his eyes slink tiredly open. The swap in position, however, only succeeds in further encouraging slumber, as he is far more comfortable now than he was five seconds ago. “’M not.”
“You are.” Iker laughs against the shifting rise of his shoulder blade, feeling the contented shiver that snakes through Cesc’s body. He wants to kiss it through his skin and when he tips his head to do so he is disappointed that he can’t taste the clear electricity. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“But I want to,” sighs Cesc, albeit the endearing smile inhabiting his soft rose mouth. “Tired.”
“But I’m not,” declares Iker, and Cesc is attached enough to reality that he can snicker woozily at these words.
“I don’t care,” he murmurs. “Leave me ’lone.”
“I don’t want to.” Iker stamps a wet, sucking kiss to the base of Cesc’s throat, hoisting himself up on his elbows so he can linger over the midfielder, touching him only with his mouth. “You’re hot.”
Cesc groans and curls fiercely around his pillow, ignoring the suggestion of flame that licks through his stomach. “I can be hot in the morning. Go jerk off.”
“That’s no fun.” Iker smiles into the defined crevice between his shoulder blades before he pokes out his tongue and licks, tasting sweat and the remnants of something clean, and his stomach clenches simultaneously with his heart when it soaks in how very Cesc that taste is.
“Are you ever not horny?” mumbles Cesc, his toes bending painfully against his will as he drifts. “Is that possible?”
“Yes.” Iker is at the ridge of his back now, biting softly at the give of his arch, sneaking around to lap at his hipbones, arrowing sharply up against his waist. “Only when you’re not near me, though.”
Helplessly Cesc smiles at that, warm inside out. “So maybe you should go sleep in the living room,” he says, teasing, moaning feebly in remonstration when Iker jabs under his ribcage, gathers him in for a chide of a cuddle. Unrestrictedly the goalie’s hand finds its way through the fissure between Cesc’s thighs, threading his needle as he reaches up to feel over Cesc’s boxers. Contradictory to his words the midfielder is more than a little aroused and Iker gives a snarl of deep satisfaction upon contact.
“You sure about that?” he asks, folding his hand over the tenting there and stroking slow, slow, leisurely so Cesc chokes out a soft “oh” of hypnotic pleasure and burrows back against him.
“Y-yes.”
Smirking, Iker slinks away, withdrawing his hand only at the last moment so he can push Cesc’s shoulders down into the mattress as he rests his chin on the full camber of his ass. Cesc gives a mew of disapproval at the absence of warmth and proficiency around his cock and Iker kisses the base of his spine; surprised, the midfielder feels his heart forget to beat and he bridges up in automatic want.
“Really?” Iker slides his hands under Cesc’s thighs and pulls them up until he can hook his fingers in his waistband, jesting as he lowers his shorts in bare centimeters. “How sure?”
“Ninety percent,” announces Cesc. In spite of his words he hoists himself up with sweat-slick palms flattened on the mattress, inviting Iker to rid him smoothly of his shorts, and the goalie consents, hasty but sure as he flows over Cesc’s skin. Lazily he maps over Cesc’s tailbone with a wet surprisingly chaste mouth and Cesc gasps, a shrill inhalation against the undulating silence.
“Now?” asks Iker softly.
“Um.” Cesc gulps. “Seventy-five.”
“Hmm.” Iker crawls up so he can glide his tongue down the rhythmic rutted column of Cesc’s spine, leaving a glistening, chill boulevard of starvation that Cesc feels every time he so much as breathes. Iker stops when he’s nudging against the midfielder’s ass and he speaks in a hot wave that crashes down hard in a place Cesc has never felt quite so intensely before. “Now?”
“Fifty,” shudders Cesc, arching up, immoral with lust, beautiful.
“Oh yes?” Iker licks lightly into the natural crevice of his body, ghosting over the pucker of muscle he knows innately by feel, and this, so new, hurls chills through his nervous system. Cesc freezes and explodes out a moan for the suggestion of contact. “And now?” Pushing his tongue out to spiral around the younger man’s quivering opening.
Cesc collapses onto the pillows, fisting his hands around blankets, bawling Iker’s name, and the keeper interprets this reaction as a go-ahead. He delves into Cesc with a ravenous tongue, vice hands bruising at carved hips so he can pull him back and sink deeper until Cesc is screaming and his face is buried, the taste (addictive, bordered with his own salt, toxic) and proximity enough to force vertigo through his system.
*
Three. Tomfoolery dances in Cesc’s deep eyes like sprite lights in a midnight garden and Iker should know better than to stop watching him for one second but his vigilance wavers in breezy haste and before he knows it his gaze has been veiled in darkness.
Somewhere behind him the midfielder chuckles, low. Iker can feel his fingers trickling at the back of his head as he secures the thin strip of cloth and feebly he reaches up to war with him but Cesc is powered by adrenaline and he stays the attempt with ease.
“Yeah, so…” Iker pauses, clicks his tongue against the ceiling of his mouth. “I can’t see.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” laughs Cesc, reaching deftly around to pull Iker’s wrists behind his back and tack them there with warm winding hands.
“Is there a point to this?” asks Iker idly, allowing himself to be led, meek as a tamed animal.
“Yep.”
“Are you going to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
Iker sighs and falls silent, his eyebrows twin arches against the blindfold in automatic calculation as he deliberates his options. He could probably run if he truly wished; he is slightly taller and stronger than Cesc, and could fight him off if necessary. Only a small portion of his mind (the part that tells him not to stay up past eleven-thirty before a game, and not to eat that slice of chocolate cake) is surfing this thought wave and he forgets it as easily as it presents itself: he wants to know where this is going and he’s sticking this out.
After a few moments (seconds? Blindness manipulates time) of walking, Cesc sits him down on a chair; it’s at least comfortable and he burrows immediately while he waits. He senses movement and hears the younger man clamoring around in a corner before he feels Cesc in front of him by goosebumps rising over his skin, mountain chains of heightened perception. A finger skips over his mouth and automatically he sucks it in, coaxing a soft sound of pleasure from above before Cesc pulls away and checks himself.
“Open your mouth.”
Iker obeys, amused, and Cesc slips his fingers in again, brief this time, used only to push a square of bittersweetness onto his tongue. Iker knows what it is immediately but waits for Cesc to ask.
“What is it?”
“Chocolate.”
“What kind?”
“Dark.”
“Good.” Cesc grins as he waits for Iker to finish and the goalie can hear it in his voice, feel it in the surrounding air. When Cesc is happy he exudes joy like flowers expel scent.
Iker cocks his head. “Do I win a prize?”
“Yes you do,” replies Cesc, and Iker grins, reaches up to undo the blindfold; he gets as far as his nose when Cesc shoves his hand roughly away and inserts a long, mushy, sugar-crystalline object between his half-open lips. Iker sputters in dispute but relaxes as he chews, all thoughtful and automatic enjoyment.
“Gummy worm,” he says slowly.
“Uh-huh.” Cesc is beaming.
“Sour gummy worm.”
“You’re good at this game,” answers Cesc approvingly, and Iker laughs at that, shaking his head.
“If you say so.”
Several seconds after Iker swallows Cesc leans in again, paints silk over his lips, and Iker dabs his tongue out to taste. “Peanut butter,” he says instantly, rewarded by Cesc’s affectionate hand through his hair.
“Yes,” he says, and Iker detects a glitch in his voice, a sigh, too slight for anything but passing notice. “Here.”
Iker leans forward expectantly and this time Cesc slides two fingers deep into his mouth, so far back Iker can feel a slight gag reflex, and it surprises him; by now he has become accustomed to its nonexistence. Out of pure impulse he jerks back but hollows his cheeks furiously around Cesc’s intruding hand and the midfielder cannot keep back a rumbling moan of desire.
“Jelly,” announces Iker, when his mouth is empty again. “Blackberry jelly.”
“Mm.” Cesc’s lips stamp over his own, briefly, before he pulls back and digs into Iker’s mouth yet again, this time with a difficult flavor to place. Iker is lost in every rack of his mind, digging through shelves and boxes tucked in corners of his childhood for every candy he knows, everything once familiar to him that has become obscure in adulthood.
“Jolly Rancher,” he says slowly, sucking harshly at the sides of the tiny saccharine log in his mouth. “Watermelon Jolly Rancher.”
“Yes,” gasps Cesc, and suddenly Iker places the earlier catch in his voice, knows why Cesc, who chirps at nine thousand miles a minute when he’s excited about something, has gone quiet, and he opens his mouth to chide him for starting early when Cesc dips into his mouth again, this time with a wholly different taste dripping from his fingertips, such an absolute contrast to the sweetness Iker has thus far been fed that he has to slow to recognize it. When he does he feels his stomach drop and he licks greedily from the source until every teardrop of fluid has been transferred to his mouth. He takes his time, listens to Cesc breathe, in-out, in-out, trembling, and when he swallows he makes it a show.
“You,” he says huskily, and Cesc rips off the blindfold, drags him up for a kiss, all sugar and salt and common understanding.
“Congratulations,” purrs Cesc between sloppy, deep, passionate delves. “You win a prize.”
“And what is that?” pants Iker, pushing a solid, intrusive leg between Cesc’s thighs as they lap at each other.
“Me,” answers Cesc, and Iker flips him around, shoves him down into the chair, and grinds raggedly against him until both of them are senseless.
*
Four. Early evening and the shadows saunter and scuttle through the windows and Cesc is surprised to open his eyes to the dimness. Iker had gone out for bread and milk and he’d closed his eyes for (one minute no two okay five) a short rest that had turned into an hour of black. The exhaustion, he knows, is due to the purposeful insomnia of the day before, when Iker had arrived and they’d spent the remaining day and most of the night fucking in Cesc’s bed and on the floor and in each of the four showers in the house and on the kitchen table and in the guest bedroom and on the couch in the basement and -
Cesc is grinning maniacally at the recollection but as rationality closes upon him the joy in his expression wanes. Yawning deeply he checks the clock, checks his phone, nothing new save for the shift in time, and he’s jolted through with a faint cartwheel of fear: Iker should be back by now.
Agile, fluid, he rises from the couch, his sleep-weakened fingers curled around his phone, and glides confidently through to the kitchen, which is as dark as they’d left it earlier, when Iker had declared that they were low on essentials and offered to replenish the supply. Cesc is stabbed hard with unease but he tries to breathe and just moves, hovers to marvel in the silence, slinks on to check the hallway for signs of light.
“Iker,” he sings out, and the moment the word smashes the quiet apart his phone buzzes, the name on his screen the one on his lips.
“Where are you?”
“I’m here,” Iker breathes on the other end, laughing. “Come find me.”
And before Cesc can say a word the call goes dead.
Chewing habitually on his lower lip he brings his phone down and stares at it for some hint, some sign, but there is nothing and he knows he is left to his own devices. He is so unused to this side of Iker, so in love with it and wound by it and shocked thoroughly by it, but it shakes him to his core when it’s revealed because it is foreign to him, unfamiliar. Daring-fresh and veiled to everyone but him.
The hunt is long and frustrating and it might be easier in the light but he leaves the switches off because he wants to wield the power of surprise and everything is better in the dark. The basement is empty and he doesn’t think Iker will hide on the first floor but he checks anyway. His instincts can become blurry when faced with flooring prospects.
Upstairs he roots silently through the hall, combing the first two rooms to no avail, and it is only when he ducks into his bedroom that he sees the shadow slouching against the wall. Iker is albino-pale against the black and Cesc wants to lick the cream of his skin.
“You could have at least gotten under the bed or something,” he scoffs, treading gracefully closer.
“Well.” Iker grins a little; Cesc’s blood revs furiously at the drawling gravelly quality of his voice. “I wanted to be found.”
“Did you.” Cesc dances to him, tilting his head to one side. “Why is that?”
Iker snatches for him, a comfortable, affectionate tug on his forearms, steadies him centimeters from being flush. With familiar, jealous hands he crawls over Cesc’s hips, down to his palms and over his thumbs; keeping one hand on the midfielder’s waist, he chains the fingers of his free hand around the younger man’s wrist and coaxes it over to rest on the front of his jeans and even through all the denim and cloth Cesc can feel exactly how hard he is. Smirking, he pushes solidly upward with the heel of his hand and Iker moans quietly from a well somewhere intimate way down deep, lays his head back against the wall, weakened.
“Hmm.” Cesc bites at Iker’s mouth. “I want to play.”
“Game’s over,” says Iker on a growl, his hands roaming, free reign all over the midfielder’s stomach. “You win.”
“No.” Cesc pulls back, laughing at the fury in Iker’s eyes. “I’m hiding. When you find me, we’ll talk.”
And so saying, he sprints out of the room, hurling a cackle of insane triumph over his shoulder; Iker stands and rages and blinks for a moment before he follows him, catching up by utter determination and a well-aimed leap that catapults him onto Cesc’s shoulders, forcing a tiny, shocked exhalation from his lungs when they land roughly on the hallway floor. Before Cesc has half a second to regain his breath Iker is grinding hard and slow against his back and Cesc can’t help the shameless moan that wails from his mouth.
“Found you,” hisses Iker, deep, and Cesc arches for him, reaching back for the keeper’s hand so he can sink his teeth into skin when Iker takes him, rough, furious, mindmelting there on the ground where they fell.
*
Five. When it’s a full moon Iker is a different creature, his blood howls like the carnivorous wolf for the specter opalescence of the night guardian, the melancholy decorating its face reflected in his thoughts. Tonight he is suffering from insomnia and he sits on the ledge of the window, fingerprinting the pane simply because he cannot touch the sky.
He knows his phone will light up before it does, knows who it will be because he wanted the call and he knows things when he’s connected to awareness like he is tonight. Cesc’s voice is raspy and a little bit painful and Iker is stunned by how much he needs him now.
“Come to my room,” he seduces, half plead, half command.
“What about Fernando?” asks Iker slowly, already rising to pull on a sweatshirt, quiet for fear of waking Silva, a tiny parenthesis wrapped under the blankets of the other bed.
“He’s with Sergio,” answers Cesc softly. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” promises Iker, tender, and he steals a key and goes.
Cesc is at the door before Iker even knocks and the keeper feels that knife-slice of mental understanding that they have cultivated, shivering inside him in strange familiarity, though he can’t get used to it, never will. He hasn’t felt this with anyone and he knows they share thoughts sometimes in a common smirk across a room, so profound that Iker can’t relate it to absurdity. It is their reality.
“I missed you,” bursts Cesc, and Iker pulls him over for an embrace, hot and clumsy in hasty fervor. By innate knowledge their lips stagger together, lapping slow and hungry into each other’s mouths, and Cesc is the one who draws Iker to the bed, falling on top of him with a graceful assuredness. He has fallen for Iker too many times not to know that the keeper will always be there to stop him from disaster.
Soon they are unclothed and writhing together, all knotted up like sailor’s ties, undoable bound by selfish limbs. Iker knows what comes next and his hands go to Cesc’s hips to pull him on top but he turns his head to the paper-slice of moonlight scratching through the windows, eager to watch and trick with its wickedness, and his eyes go clear.
Wordless, he spreads his legs and squeezes them gently around the midfielder’s waist before settling back, opening himself, a gentle hint, a come-on. Cesc moves with him at first, unsuspecting, but when it settles in his mind what is happening he gasps and darts back to stare flummoxed into Iker’s amused, placid eyes.
“You want me to - ”
Iker smiles.
“I want to feel you.”
Perhaps the goalie had assumed in a cobwebbed, swept-away portion of his mind that Cesc would be maladroit and fumbling, but the midfielder is composed, despite the feral swirl of keenness in his gaze as he scissors preparing fingers inside of Iker, who groans lustily for the infrequent invasion. He has been the one fucking for so long he has forgotten the sensation of being breached. When Cesc enters him, inch-by-inch and cautious despite the obvious urge to go embossed over his lovely face, Iker turns his head to he side and bites his mouth over the shards of anguish littering his body as he coaxes himself (hold on, hold on, it’s only the beginning) to relax. It hasn’t been so long that he can’t remember how good it is after the pain.
Cesc folds over and kisses him, skittering fingers a distraction on Iker’s cock, and he plays until the goalie is groaning and rolling up with his hips for more. Then he moves, their rhythm already known and established, for it is no different when Iker is the one in charge. More frantic, perhaps, because Cesc is overwhelmed by the sensation and Iker is growling for him to (move, go, fuck me harder) keep up the pace. Miraculously Cesc knows what Iker wants and before long there is no more begging, just moans sobbed from a sandpaper throat, then that scratchy yelp of warning that Iker gives each time he is about to explode.
Ruthlessly Cesc angles up, hits bullseye, and as he does he flies down and snarls into Iker’s mouth: “You’re - so fucking tight - ” and that is it for both of them. Their eyes crash and they stare evocatively as they rush to bliss together, Iker half in Cesc’s palm and half decorating his stomach, Cesc as deep inside Iker as he can possibly be, both of them shaking so hard they can’t speak. Mesmerized.
At last Cesc draws gingerly away and Iker reaches for him but he dives before he can be caught, leaning down to suck his own fluid from between Iker’s thighs, scavenging his entrance for the drops near the surface. Spellbound, Iker watches, unaware that his lips are parted in wanton shock, and he is rewarded when Cesc rolls up and swipes his tongue into his mouth, swapping the combination of tastes in a long, profound kiss.
When they curl together, wasted, giddy, Iker cannot get close enough to Cesc, wants to split souls to always be half inside each other and fulfilled. “I love you,” he murmurs into Cesc’s dark hair, and the midfielder hums in simple joy.
“Love you so much,” he returns, and Iker falls asleep knowing he will never get enough of the miracle encased in his arms.
[FIN]